You toss me watercolor daisies,

when my hands would conjure you a garden

of blazing bouquets, if you hint just the least.

For one minute, if you’d care at all.


You sing me listless tunes you’ve worn,

when my fingers would line out such symphonies

of sounds never heard, if you join just the least.

For one minute, if you’d sing along.


You press crumpled paper into my fist,

when my purse bursts seams wide with gold-full,

of riches never seen, if you’d open just the least.

For one minute, if you’d only let go.

Ask me. I Dare You

Ask me. I dare you.

[But I forgot… ]

I soak color from the walls, brushing it into pictures, twisting it into wool afghans.

All these against leather sofas on wood floors.

Charged with sunlight from unveiled windows.

Smells of  home cooked food linger over an old sad body draped in beautiful clothing.

I walk every day, unless I dance wildly to whole-hearted red-blooded music.

Long tub baths go best with sweet-smelling oil.

And books.

Meaningful conversations with loved ones emanate laughter, tears and hugs.

A house full of children, music, and dance…  where all join in.

[can you hear it?]

And the first one to get there…



Chart each unsearchable outpost,

Plumb unfathomable depths of soul

Infinite pixels of mind

Imagination’s horizons.

On some abyssal plain, desire’s colors glow dark and deep.

No beam penetrates

No eye perceives

No breath permits

Chasms yawn twixt treadmill

and  horizon, confined to cage. I

Scan seashore, touch and marvel,

Points, light and hues.

Eternity rests under my fingers.

Kyrie Eleison, Bartimeus’ Song

Bent underneath humanity,
huddled close behind darkened eyes…
palms open, empty.

‘Kyrie! …mercy for sinners.
Beg wholeness, wellness, while
Men take up stones, hurl words
One finger writes conviction into sand,
Accusations cease,
We go, sin no more.

If Kyrie! … dead men taunt ‘if’
Demand things withheld.
Reject the offering,
Press on insistent answers,
Who sinned?
Denying the least of these…

Kyrie! … mend  the broken
Hands and voices, lift them as a banner.
Over shame. Against defeat.
Shout all open hearts.
Quickly, before sight dims.
See here, little children, he bids us:

Dancing Lepers

alone, helpless
motionless, silent
stone hearted
leprous and unclean
do not touch, taste, handle
deceitful words, lacking power

spit and dirt in blind eyes
reaching for heaven, or
the hem of a garment
yet unwashed in dirty water
priestly proclamations, only
do not touch, taste, handle
force of words, stealing life

We embrace him,
no, he touches us
a word delivered,
crucified, risen,
spoken and fulfilled,
‘It is good’ or
“It is finished’

either way…
we touch, kiss,
righteousness ours
weakness supplied
a filament of strength
dancing for joy.

Eulogy for a Multitude(Mark 5)

I die naked sheltered only by tombs, wielding stones to score my flesh.
I vainly engrave an everlasting memorial, a bloody epitaph to my demise.
I listen, battle-worn, to the multitude who speaks my name.
This multitude desolates, crowded in emptiness and waste, their lies bind the mind.
Their fear heaps chains upon my fetters with shackles which only burst into terror.
We wage unending war, the only spoils our scars, brokenness and fear.
Invading our beachhead, the legion falls upon their faces begging, ‘damn us not’.
They would stay where stupid pigs harmlessly feed on the grassy hillside.
At your word they mount on grisly chariots, riding one last conquest into the sea.
Battle silent, you set me to rest by the fire, among friends, one chosen and beloved.
Bidding to stay, I hunger to follow and feast at your table full and warm.
At your word, graciously you give me to a multitude still longing for pigs.
I wear eternal garments, sheltered under rock, magnificent righteousness covering my flesh.
I gloriously display an everlasting memorial, a human epitaph to your conquest.
I speak joyful emptiness to the multitude bearing your name.



I breathe into you.

Rest as I bandage weal and wound

mark, mangle,

bend and break.

A tiny bruised blade of grass.

I brace on pillars of stone,

bind against stanchions of truth,

guard with promise of amends.

Quietly I whisper peace,

arouse what smolders and seethes,

reignite to consume,

dare live yet longer,

in hope.

A few handfuls….

Let go your two-fisted man-handle; the grasping.

Waken complacent stumps; set aside your famine.

Take straight view of what remains ahead:

When things work for one;  they work for none.


Please take hold of my hand. Once young,

and now being old, I will tell you stories.

Choice tales make simple children wise;

and shape better princes from mere men.

We’ll gather threads, and twine them

Walk the road;  lean in, take hold together.

Frequent falling, fear, and callous cold,

 on shared path,  fade forgotten behind us.

Taste one sweet handful of quietness;

Its richness dangles just within our reach

Rouse stumbling feet; waken fumbling fingers;

Let go all blustering, noisy, empty wind.

And rest…